Gaits of Heaven

that twice in a single day was I to be blessed with the heaven-sent opportunity to wander in precincts patterned on the template revered by my forbears, all of which is to say that just as Harvard Square on Commencement Day had testified to celestial design, so too the therapeutic family meeting proclaimed its spiritual origins in that paradigmatic Event of Events, the dog show.
    That the meeting was to be modeled on the dog-show archetype became apparent to me when I pulled Steve’s van into Ted’s parking area, which I unhesitatingly recognized as a variant of the unloading areas available to exhibitors so that they don’t have to haul crates, grooming tables, and other show paraphernalia, as well as dogs, of course, all the way across big parking lots to the show sites where they are going to set up. At actual shows, parking in the unloading zones is strictly temporary, whereas I had arranged with Ted to occupy a spot close to the show site for the whole evening. Also, I had nothing to unload. I did, however, have two dogs with me, Lady, who was there for Caprice, and Sammy, whom I was hoping to take to at least a few final minutes of dog training at the Cambridge Armory, and I’d wanted them near the house. Parking in Cambridge is notoriously terrible, but on Commencement Day, it can be impossible, and the point of having Lady with us was to have her available to Caprice, not in a car parked two or three blocks away. Besides, I hate leaving a dog in a car on the street, especially a dog like Sammy, who’d go anywhere with anyone.
    By so-called coincidence, Caprice, Lady, Sammy, and I arrived in Steve’s van rather than in my Blazer, my own car having supposedly just so happened to develop a flat tire. I'd discovered the flat before Steve had left, and since neither of us had wanted to be delayed by tire changing, Steve had arranged a ride to his veterinary meeting with friends, and I’d taken his van. The van was a battered old vehicle to which Steve was greatly attached, less because of its convenience, I suspected—it easily held five dog crates and was outfitted with compartments for veterinary supplies and fishing gear—than because of its ineradicably canine and thus homey and comforting odor. In fact, on the short drive to Ted’s, it was the redolence that reminded me of the afternoon’s odd little episode involving Anita, who had hated Steve’s van and had incessantly nagged him to replace it with a two-seater sports car with no room for even one of his dogs.
    But I digress. As I was saying, when I pulled Steve’s van into the parking spot at Ted’s, I was aware of using an exhibitor space, but was distracted from meditations on universal paradigms and such by Caprice, who said lightly, “The scene of the crime."
    “No one is going to run you over tonight,” I assured her. “There’s my mother’s Reiki healer,” Caprice said. “What’s she doing here?”
    “Part of the network, presumably.”
    “What time is it?”
    “Ten to seven. We’re a little early. Do you want to take Lady in now? Or leave her here for the moment?”
    “I think maybe she can stay here for now. Can I give her one of the Kongs you brought?”
    To keep the dogs happy in their crates, I’d packed a cooler with four stuffed Kong toys from the freezer. Caprice eased open Lady’s crate, hugged her, slipped in the Kong, and latched the door. Meanwhile, I gave Sammy his Kong. “You be a good boy,” I said. “Keep Lady company. We’ll be back to check on you.” Then, leaving a couple of windows slightly open, I closed and locked the van, and Caprice and I made our way up the steps to the porch of Ted’s house and added our shoes to a row of twelve or fourteen pairs.
    Before I’d even rung the bell, Ted opened the door and, without mentioning Rita, made her influence apparent. “I hate to start out by kvetching,” he said, “but they won’t let me serve food. Not even coffee. Nothing. So, my apologies. Ted was on crutches, but he looked freshly showered, and he wore clean, new-looking clothes, a greenish-yellow shirt and chinos with the right calf neatly slit to accommodate his cast.
    “It isn’t a social occasion, Ted,” Caprice told him.
    “The ultimate shikse, that’s what you are. Everything’s a social occasion.”
    A female shriek interrupted us. “Dolfo!” Ted yelled uselessly. “Dolfo!” To me, he said, “He’s taken a liking to Vee Foote, and she’s allergic.”
    My foot! I wanted